Our mother passed away on August 22, 2004, after losing a battle with cancer. She was over ninety, we are not exactly sure by how much. She was a tough lady. She raised seven children and lost one at birth. She saw her children placed relatively well, all of them; something that never was a guarantee in her circumstances. She saw hard times and good, always worked from dawn till dusk, and even with her weather-beaten and frail body remained relatively active till almost the very end. Ever since our father's death in '82, she looked after our ancestral homestead mostly by herself and lived there with Jogesh Rabha, who helped out with chores she could not physically handle. Jogesh married four years ago and they had a little boy, who became mother's obsession and joy. Neeva became her 'true daughter-in-law' as she told people, because all of us, her own sons and daughters-in-law live away. With her is gone the anchor to our roots at our ancestral village. She was the last of our kin there from her generation, and her passing leaves a void in our lives that is doubly wide, as if a bridge has been breached.
For all of us expatriates, dealing with the loss of our near and dear ones are long drawn out affairs, often spread over years. Rarely have I witnessed our mother cry. But that day in July 1970, when I walked out of the house with our father accompanying me to the 'nongola-mukh (gate) she shed a quiet tear, not knowing what might become of me in a far off land where no one she ever knew went to and would not come out of the front door. Many times since, I had to prepare myself to accept that it might be the last time. A painful thing to do, even though the process prepares us to live with memories gradually, without the shock and accompanying grief that could confront us otherwise.
This last July 26th, 2004, I hugged her good-bye in her hospital bed for the very last time. One again she sobbed faintly (I am sure she knew) and composing herself, told our daughter and me, 'ja, jaage-ja' (go,go - as if we might be late for the flight), like she always did.
By Chandan Mahanta, St. Louis
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